


Kneeling

by Barefoot On The Moon (BarefootWanderer)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 12 Days of Blasphemy Challenge (Good Omens), Blasphemy, Character Study, First Time, Introspection, M/M, NSFW, Oral Sex, Purple Prose, Religion, This got away from me, Very on brand for me tbh, and sex, but boy is there blasphemy, but interpreted badly, do angels pray?, not christmas related, raised by ex-catholics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-18 08:16:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21841096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BarefootWanderer/pseuds/Barefoot%20On%20The%20Moon
Summary: Aziraphale is well-practiced at being on his knees.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 33
Kudos: 152
Collections: 12 Days of Blasphemy





	Kneeling

Aziraphale kneels. He has knelt before, of course. He has genuflected in churches and at altars, has fallen to his knees in caves and forests, in front of great men and brave women and children that were beautiful or humble or so terrifyingly powerful that they could move mountains or fell nations with a single sideways glance. He has sat upon his knees for meals and casual conversation, at funerals and weddings and affairs of state, and, of course, like this.  


He has knelt before as he kneels now, with his chest bared and his fingers digging into the meat of thighs, has knelt groaning as hands tugged at his hair or stroked his cheek or held him still.  


Aziraphale does not, has never, knelt in supplication. He has never found it within himself to beg.  


But tonight, after warmth and too much wine, after a kiss pressed on clumsy impulse against his mouth, Aziraphale had begged. And knelt.  
He had caught Crowley fleeing, just as he reached the door. He had caught his wrist, used the other’s own momentum to swing him around and into an embrace, taken advantage of the drop-jawed shock on Crowley’s face to cup his face and slip his tongue between Crowley’s teeth.  


Crowley had seized his arms and jerked them apart, staring at him in confusion and shaky, erratic desire. Aziraphale knew why. This felt dangerous, even now. This felt like gripping a fence, unsure if it is electrified. This felt like Russian Roulette, and inexpertly-prepared fugu, and petting a feral cat. Crowley was braced for pain.  


“What?” he gasped desperately, clutching Aziraphale’s shoulders. “What? How? This?”  


Aziraphale took a steadying breath and leaned forward to kiss Crowley’s cheek gently. “Yes. If you’ll have me.” He pulled away again to meet the demon’s eyes. “Please, my love. Let it be now. Please.”  


Crowley looked at him, swallowed, and nodded once. He tugged Aziraphale back against himself and staggered until his back hit a wall. Aziraphale crowded up against him, impatient for contact, and his fingers found the skin beneath the hem of Crowley’s shirt.  


Crowley gasped wanting, wordless noises when Aziraphale’s teeth found his neck. He shivered under Aziraphale’s tongue, his breath, his hands. He reached up, hesitant and unbelieving, to tug away the bowtie and undo the top button of Aziraphale’s shirt.  


When no one stopped him he kept going.  


He slipped the last button free and slid his arms around Aziraphale, under his shirt, the skin of his palms pressed cool quivering against Aziraphale’s ribs. Aziraphale smiled into his collarbone and dropped his hands to Crowley’s belt.  


Crowley froze, his nails against Aziraphale’s back. Aziraphale stilled his hands a breathed a questioning noise against Crowley’s neck.  


Crowley took a breath. Aziraphale thought about breathing, about controlling the flow of air, about the pressure building in his chest. And then-  


“ _Yes_.”  


Aziraphale knelt.  


A strangled noise seemed to force itself from Crowley’s throat. “No, angel. You don’t have to. I’m not-”  


Aziraphale looked up at him and _God_ that was a view worth dying for. “Please,” he murmured from the floor. “I want to.”  
Crowley paused and pressed a hand against his angel’s cheek. He met Aziraphale’s eyes, clearly trying to ignore the sight of his own erection so close to Aziraphale’s mouth. Whatever answer he found in Aziraphale’s face must have satisfied him, because he relaxed slightly and murmured “Alright.”  


And now Aziraphale has begged. And he kneels. And he thinks about his breath.  


Breath is a strange, vital thing that has no meaning to him. It’s like prayer in that way. Supplication feels different when you know the face of your benefactor, when your Lord is not shrouded in clouds and mystery and stained-glass rays. He knows how to pray, of course. He knows the words in a hundred different languages, knows prayers to gods that are not his own.  


He knows how to breathe. He knows how to bring air into his body and force it out again, back and forth, in and out; a steady, crucial rhythm.  


Aziraphale brings this rhythm to bear around Crowley’s cock now. He is steady, controlled, constant, as the demon loses mastery of his own breath.  


Aziraphale does not worship, not in any meaningful way. He knows that what he lacks is wonder. There can be no faith when there is knowing. He knows what is required of him, beyond the superstitions and rituals that humans impose in attempts to understand or please or placate. He needs none of that. He knows the motions, can recite them by rote, but they mean nothing to him.  


He breathes in, and his world smells of Crowley. He has breathed in incense over the years. Tobacco, woodsmoke, psychotropics. He knows the smell of fresh bread and Darjeeling tea, of wet earth and funeral pyres. He has breathed in hospitals.  


What he breathes out is a groan. It is a hum, a hymn, and Crowley shifts above him. Crowley tugs his hair once- a question; twice- a warning; thrice- a denial of the salvation he will find on Aziraphale’s tongue. The angel grows impatient, and clasps Crowley’s hands in his, lacing their fingers. He sings a benection into flesh.  


Aziraphale has tasted sacraments. He has drunk communion wine and wine from kiddish cups. He has been spoon-fed honey and hand-fed sweets. He has broken bread with farmers and with beggars, has dined at the tables of kings. He has scooped lentils with injera, and covered his face as he chewed on a whole bird, drowned in brandy and set alight.  


_This_ is what is holy. Crowley is gasping, swearing, offering Aziraphale his body and his heart at this altar the angel has built from dead trees, dead insects, the words of dead men.  


Aziraphale kneeling, begging, praying, accepts this sacrament, holds the offering on his tongue, swallows it down, savors it against his palate.  


Aziraphale kneels, and leans his forehead against Crowley’s thigh.  


He makes no obeisance but this.

**Author's Note:**

> So, I'm not sure I'll do the whole challenge, but this happened to my brain and I am fomenting a few more. This checked several boxes for the 12 Days of Blasphemy challenge, but was originally for Day 4: Kneeling.
> 
> Also the word count is a little low for the challenge, but I like to think of it as efficient.
> 
> EDIT: Hey y'all, since this is gaining traction, come shout at me at https://shoelesswanderer.tumblr.com

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Kneeling](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22217614) by [Literarion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Literarion/pseuds/Literarion)




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